Six Love
by LaNorita
Summary: Spashley as protennisplayers ... Just read it!
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Six Love  
Author: Norita  
Rating: PG 13 for now, but will differ in the future  
Summary: Meh. Spashley as pro-tennisplayers. That's all you need to know ****  
Couple: Ashley/Spencer**

Author's Notes: I've seen so many story-lines used for Spashley that don't think I was capable to find a new one. Though, I don't think this one was used yet. If I'm wrong than please, correct me. And oh this is my first Spash-fic so bare with me ... **  
Disclaimer: Sadly I own nothing ... **

**Read and Review please!**  
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"Silence please."

I look up in the sky, locate the sun and blink at its brightness. I re-adjust my cap one last time, and bring my gaze to my feet.

One. Two. Three bounces on the ground, before I hold the ball tightly as it rests, in my hand. I look ahead and give my opponent one last deadly glance. I see her clutching her racket firmly in between her hands. She's slightly jumping up and down. 

Anxious.

She knows this will be the last point of this match. She knows that she won't win this match. She knew, before she even stepped on the court.

I position myself. Toes pointed towards the right net post and the left shoulder pointed at the left post. I've probably been in this position over a million times. But I always need to think it over. It has to be perfect. It's as simple as that. I finally initiate my serve by tossing the ball in the air. I look up following the course of the object and when it finally downs to the apex of its trajectory, I firmly hit it with my racket. It falls right in the middle of my strings. The so-called sweet spot. I know that this will generate the perfect balance between power and touch. I know that this ball won't return, once I hit it. I know that this will be the last point of the match.

And I 'm right. My opponent leaps to the ball. She knows she won't return it. But she tries to touch the ball with her racket-frame anyway. You could call it sort of honor-savior. But she knows she won't touch it.

And she doesn't. Ace. My ninth this match. I hit eleven yesterday. I mentally note to myself to work an extra hour on me serve later that evening.

Everything just has to be perfect.

"Game, set and match Ms. Carlin, two sets to love; 6-1,6-2."

I sprint to the net, shake my opponents hand and tell her she played a good match. She firmly nods her head and gives my an impish smile. Her face is stricken with a sense of reality. Not disappointment, nor exasperation. She knows we're from different leagues.

She already lost the match earlier on, in the locker room. She was secretly stealing glances when I was doing some last-minute exercises with a certain intensity. They're good for nothing. They won't improve your level of play, nor will they help you concentrate on the match to come. Simply good for nothing. 

Well, _almost_ nothing. It's great for intimidation. The match starts well before it begins. Just ask my victim of the day.

I move towards the umpire and proceed to shake her hand too, before I return to the middle of the court. I twirl around a little, while waving to the crowd. Cheers roar through the stands, while a large part of them give me a standing ovation. They love me. Who doesn't love the best player of the world?

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I sit in a large chair, in front of the 30 or so journalists gathered from around the world. Cold air hits my shoulders as I sit back and await the questions. Press conferences have become as normal in a day as my breakfast. After every match, win or lose, I get to sit in front of these reporters and answer the same questions every single day. Tiresome? Maybe. Boring? No, just part of my life.

"Congratulations Spencer. How do you feel on making yet another final?"

How does it feel to wake up, yet another morning? Finals are a part of the routine. I always attain them.

"Oh it's nice of course. I feel blessed to have the chance to play another final, and to fight for another tournament-victory. Every final I play is different. It's always special."

It's the same thing I said last week. And the week before that. My answers have become as predictable and monotone as the questions that are shot at me.

"At 4-1, 40-30, you hit an impressive volley from in-between your legs. How does it feel to be capable of doing things with the ball that very few people can do on a practice court, let alone in the middle of the match."

It was at 5-1, 15-0, at 1.17 PM. I hate it when they ask things, without even checking the facts correctly. How can he forget when I hit that genius shot? And it felt good. So fucking good. It felt good to hear the crowd gasp at its perfection. To see my opponent bow her head out of desperation. To taste the sweetness of victory coming closer and closer.

"It was … nice. I got a bit lucky I guess." I shrug faking indifference.

"Do you feel that, the success you have right now is due to your mother?"

Ah, the mother-question. My mom makes an appearance, at least once while my interviews . Paula Stevens, now Paula Carlin. One of the greatest players in tennis-history was my mother. Surely she was the one that forced me into this world, right?

Wrong.

I'm sure she would've liked it, but I wanted this life myself. Was my success due to my mom? Hell, no. I was the one who was pouncing against balls at 6.00 AM under the blistering sun. I was the one who ran 8 miles every evening, before going to bed. I was the one who gave up her childhood to become the player I am today.

I attained my own success. My relatedness to the Great Paula Stevens was only worthy for a good story in the tabloids.

"I owe my mother a lot, and tennis is one of those things. She was my biggest hero growing up, and she still is now. I would've never become the tennis players that I am today if it wasn't for her."

I lie so easily, and it doesn't even scare me anymore. I wonder if they really fall for these answers, or just pretend they do so they can write unabashedly about this wonderful fairytale.

"Your next opponent has been having a nice week. Do you think she can do some damage tomorrow?"

She might if I turn up in a wheelchair.

"I haven't seen her play, nor do I know who I'm playing. So I don't know."

"She's a qualifier. She's ranked 153rd in the world, but she's been having an amazing run this week."

That's about to come to a crushing end tomorrow.

"Well, that's nice for her. It's good to see some new names in the game, just to change the pace a little. I'm sure she's had an amazing week, and she'll take this experience into the rest of her career."

Journeywomen. Once and awhile, they'll have a string of good luck for a couple of matches and reach the final of a big tournament. They're ecstatic, everything falls perfectly into place for them.

And then they get crushed. Namely by me. They'll call that week the best of their lives, and hope they'll continue their success afterwards. But, you'll never hear of them again. They're catapulted right back into reality.

By me.

I like that.

"She firmly believes she can win this tournament." A old familiar British journalist says from the second row.

I try hard not to right out laugh out loud. I'm a tennisplayer. I'm the best. A rolemodel. I need to be respectful. I need to play along the rules of tennis-etiquette. So I keep a straight face.

"She does?"

"Yes, she believes she can end your winning-streak and hegemony. She said that she's going to be the one to push you off your throne."

I laugh. I can't help it. Usually, I'm stoically calm. Poker-face on the court, poker-face off the court. Champions don't know any emotions. But for a teensy moment, I'm a 22 year-old girl again. An amused one.

"Well, that's good for her. I like a challenge."

Even if it isn't one.

"Do you think, she could be a threat in the near future?"

"Well, we'll see about that tomorrow." I smirk.

The moderator looks around and asks for any further questions. When he sees that no one has anything to ask anymore, he ends the conference.

I'm quick on my feet and casually walk towards the old British journalist from earlier on. He notices me and gives me a sly smile. He's always present at my press conferences. I don't know his name, though. I've just accustomed to call him 'Old English Guy'.

I like him.

"This girl, you're talking about. What's her name?"

He chuckles lightly, sensing my curiosity and maybe a hint of anxiousness.

"Davies. Ashley Davies."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews. I'm glad you guys like, and I hope you'll enjoy this next chap! **

**And about my lack of updating my other fics, all I can say is patience is a virtue … coughhiatuscough (I know, I know I suck). But I rather update when I have more time with a decent chap, instead of now with a crappy one. Anywayz, I've had this chapter written for a long time now, but didn't post it yet so here it is …**

**

* * *

"You have to pressure her, Spencer. Don't let her get into that match. This girl's got game, but you're better. You just need to shut off that big mouth of hers."**

Meet Glen. My coach/manager/brother. And no, putting 'brother' in last wasn't a coincidence.  
Apparently he saw this chick play. I on the other hand, still haven't and I couldn't care less. I've come to the conclusion that her mouth's probably bigger than her game. She wouldn't be the first.

"I'm giving you 20 of my profits, for this kind of advice? We seriously need to revaluate that contract of yours."

"You give me 20 , cause I'm the one who brought you this far and keeping you here."

"Oh is that so? Last time I checked, I was the one who was winning the trophies."

"When are you gonna get off that high horse of yours and stop being a bitch?"

"When are you gonna stop being an ass?" I retort quickly.

I don't hate Glen. Well, not entirely anyway. But when you travel around the world with your brother, constantly breathing down your neck and watching your every move, you get pissed easily. That's why you should never mix family with business.

I do though.

Maybe I pity him. Maybe I just want a familiar face around once and awhile. But he's here with me, and he isn't going anywhere.

"Whatever."

"I have to get going. Did you prepare my drinks?"

"Yeah, they're in the kitchen of the playerslounge."

"Did you string my rackets?"

"Last time I checked, the stringer was still working on them. I'll send them to you once he's done."

"Good. I'm off. See you after the match."

Or maybe I just like bossing my brother around.

* * *

I'm well into my pre-match warm-up, when I hear someone enter the locker room. Glen already had sent in my rackets, so I was positive that the person that came in was my adversary of the day. I don't look back, but simply glance in the large mirror in front of me as I immediately intensify my previous movements.

I constantly look in the glass before me, desperately trying to finally spot this mystery challenger. I lower my gaze, after five minutes of waiting for her to make an appearance and end my warm-up with some leg-stretching.

I bend my right leg, until my right thigh is parallel with the ground while I gradually lower my body. I feel the stretch along the front of my left thigh and along the hamstring of my right leg. I can feel the pulling sensation, and it slightly hurts. But it hurts so damn good.

As I lift my head and turn to face the left, my gaze lingers for a moment in the glass in front of me.

And surely, there she is.

She stands about a feet behind me. Watching me with her chestnuts brown eyes, through the mirror, with a hypnotizing intensity. Her auburn curls are hidden neatly under her black bandana, that is draped with little white sculls. Her curvaceous body is clad in a black tank exposing her tan shoulders, and a barely there frayed jean skirt that exposes more skin then it hides . I want to look away from her, but I unexplainably can't.

I'm tongue-tied.

"Are you gonna stay in front of that mirror forever doing your goofy tricks, or you gonna move. Cause unlike you, I wanna look good when I'm on that court."

I scoff, turn around and continue stretching my left leg.

"Hey, superstar. I'm talking to you."

I stop my actions and twirl around abruptly, annoyed by her demeanour. I look her up and down before raising both my eyebrows.

"Like what you see?"

"You can't wear that. This isn't a fashion show, _superstar_."

"Oh, yeah than what show is this, exactly?"

I glance at her, hand her my trademark-smirk before I spin back around to face the glass.

"My show." I answer simply.

"Well sorry to ruin your parade than, but I wear _what_ I want, _when_ I want it."

"Look I'm just saving you from a trip back to the locker room once your on that court. No way the referee will let you play with that."

"Like, you care whether I have to return to change or not."

"I don't. I'd just like to get this over with as quickly as possible. I got more important stuff to take care of."

"Oh don't worry. It'll be over quickly. Your ass is mine Carlin." She taunts confidently.

"I'm scared shitless."

"Whatever. Just move out of my face already."

Growing tired of the hostile conversation, I stroll away from the mirror and head to a bench located in the middle of the room and proceed to straddle it.

"Oh, and for your information, I've been wearing this outfit the whole week and not a single umpire jumped my back. But I guess you're too absorbed in your own queendom to even notice."

"You know what, why don't you just shut the fuck up and let your game do the talking instead of that big mouth of yours."

"Oh I'm going to let my game talk alright, don't worry about that. Just don't go crying to mommy dearest once you get your ass kicked."

"See, I'm trying to figure out how a no name like you, who probably plays worse than my grandma on crack, is going to even remotely come close to beat me."

"Growing hostile, I see. I thought you were the calm one? Nothing bothers you, right? Well, that's what I heard on your ESPN-special anyway. What's wrong Carlin? You scared?" She continues taunting while, stepping closer and closer into my personal space.

"I … Just … You …" I rambled, not knowing what to make of this girl.

Just then, the door flies open as the head-referee steps inside.

"Five minutes, until the game starts. The ballgirls will come in shortly to lead you through the catacomb."

We nod our heads towards the middle aged woman, before she disappears through the door and leaves us in the agonizingly quiet locker room. We simultaneously head to our lockers, packing the last of our supplies in our tennisbags. We're both rapidly packed and silently continue waiting for the ballgirls to come. The tension is killing me, as I steal a couple of secret glances of the auburn haired tempest next to me.

After what seemed an eternity, two excited tweens enter the locker room and take our bags, before leading us through the dark and cool catacomb. We both saunter through the long pit and I can't help but notice the confident posture of the girl next to me. She's walking erect with her head held high. Chin up and shoulders rolled upwards. I can't help but gulp at the prospect of what may come.

The stadium-announcer pronounces her name through the mic, and wild cheers are followed from out the stands. She's about to step on the court, when she turns around to face me one last time and smirks.

"May the best bitch win."

* * *


End file.
